I listen to the sound of the abundance of rain,
hammering and thundering my old roof,
it must be the season of love and fruitfulness,
and the wild wind is a convincing witness;
I listen to the beating of my grieving heart
where flowers open and chuckle like a hen,
for air has come to smoothen their petals,
their leaves turn away from dryness.

I have dwelt too long in the scrappy desert
and had nothing but an abundance of dust,
trees break in the morning; grasses wilt at noon;
birds whisper with a bevvy of cracked beaks,
caressing beads, cradling bones; feeling feverish;
dunes are hiding suffocating rodents
from famished vipers, earthquakes and sandstorms.
Perhaps tomorrow there could be more flushing rain.

The rain splits the sea, and the desert drowns,
so shall the land separate from the ocean,
and there shall be more water to give therapy;
It's not the season to search the sky for a smile,
or prolong the suspense about eloping,
but I will glide my ears to the surface of the moon
and  hear the gong of mercy echoing pleasantries;
It's just the sound of the abundance of rain.